Flare
by notyourleo
Summary: Michael Townley meets Trevor Philips for the first time.


_A/N: This was originally a a writing prompt response in reddit, so I apologize for being short, cliche, and crappy. I also apologize if this has been done already. Anyway, hope you guys like it!_

_Edit: it has come to my attention that I was a bit wrong about one fact in the backstory. Trevor owned a small airfield during this time. Back when I wrote this I imagined that he was a bit of a drifter around this era. So slightly AU maybe?_

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><p><em>WINTER, 1993.<em>

Trevor clutched his arms, gripping his RCFA jacket as he bit his tongue. The cold wind whipped past him. He waited at the side of a dusty runaway in an abandoned airstrip. He was used to cold waves, and it wasn't like he was living in the north. But standing around for too long had a toll on his body. He had walked around to get his bones warm again, and found a working flare gun. He didn't dare try to fire it. He kept it inside his jacket.

There was a small plane parked inside the hangar. An old Cessna 172. They stopped reproducing the beauties since 1986. The exterior was flaked and rusty, but everything was still in tact.

He had been waiting since noon, and now it was sun down. He wasn't the type to wait, much less for _fucking hours,_ but he was curious. He wanted to meet this employer, some guy with some cargo. He wanted to know what they had in store for Trevor Philips, and why the fuck they made him wait for too long.

A van was driving down the runaway, dust trails following behind it. Trevor stood up from the crate he was sitting on. _Finally,_ he thought to himself. _Fucking finally_.

Another car followed the truck behind. Trevor watched confusedly as the first vehicle broke down, shuddering and puffing smoke under the hood. The driver was punching and hitting the stirring wheel in anger. Soon he got out of the vehicle as the second car drew close. His leg was bleeding. He limped towards the hangar, towards Trevor, swearing loudly to himself. Trevor got a good look of him. Round-faced, youthful. Maybe a bit chubby.

The driver from the second car got out. It was an old man. "Hey! Hey!" he shouted at Trevor, running towards him. "Hey you! Stop him! He stole the package and my car! You've got to help me!"

So they weren't his employers. It was just another criminal and his victim out on a run. Trevor was tired, so fucking tired. He didn't want to do anything else, oh no, much less chase a chubby man with a broken leg. Blood was rushing in his veins, boiling. He walked towards the old man, who kept pointing at Chubster, as the latter hasted to the Cessna plane. Trevor took out his flare gun from his jacket and aimed it towards the old man. The old man stopped shouting, froze on his feet, and lifted his arms up in surrender. "P-please, don't do this. I have a f-family waiting for me at home." He was crying. "Please, don't."

Unfortunately, Trevor Philips was a person impossible to reason. He fired the gun to the man's eye, the flare sticking out and hollowing his head. The old man fell, and blood spattered everywhere, on the ground, on Trevor's shoes, jacket, and face.

"Jesus Christ," Chubby muttered. "You killed him. Jesus fucking Christ, you killed him."

"This was my favorite jacket, bucko." Trevor stared down at the body and spat at it. "And you ruined it." He turned to Chubster, who raised his arms when Trevor pointed the empty gun at him. There was no fear in his eyes.

The adrenaline rush was leaving Trevor, and he felt the cold wind again. He glanced at the body, and realized what he had just done. His stomach churned at the sight of the old man. The flare kept popping in his eye socket. He looked away and gripped the handle of the gun tightly.

Chubster walked towards him slowly, hands still up. Trevor lowered the gun, gathering his mind. "He said you have a package," Trevor grunted.

"Yeah." Chubster said. "And you're the pilot."

Trevor grumbled, moved back to his crate and sat down with his arms crossed. He gripped the flare gun tightly. Chubster placed his hands down and limped back towards the truck. Trevor watched him quietly. He opened the back doors and pulled out a large crate. It fell with a loud thud, and he dragged it slowly to the hangar.

The sun had sunk down. For a moment, the hangar was draped with darkness. Trevor found the switch to the old hangar lights. His eyes took a while to adjust to the brightness, hissing in pain. Chubby dropped his cargo for a moment to shield his eyes. The old man's dead body could be seen in amazing detail.

Trevor got up from his seat and moved towards Chubby, who moved like a snail. The leg was holding back and made him stop more than he needed. "Out of the way, bud." He pushed him out and lifted the crate by his own.

Chubby trailed behind him. "Thanks."

Finishing the job was all Trevor thought after waiting for hours in this shit hole. He wanted to go somewhere, as long as he was away from the body.

They loaded the cargo at the backseat of the Cessna. Chubby looked back at the body. "What about him?"

"What about the old man?"

"We can't just leave him here. They'll find him."

Trevor sneered. "Well, what are we going to do? Take him with us?"

Chubby leaned against the plane's door. Trevor waited for him to say something, and when nothing was said, he walked towards the body. The flare burned through the old man's brain, melting through his face. It didn't look like it was going to die down soon.

He held the man by his shoulders and pulled him to the plane. Blood trailed behind them, and the body stank of urine and shit. Chubby rushed to his side, every other step with his wounded leg making him flinch. "What are you doing?"

"We're taking him with us."

"No." He kept blocking the way. "No, no, _no._"

"Then what _the fuck_ do you suggest, sonny?" He dropped the body and stomped until he was nose to nose with Chubby. "What do you suggest, mmh? You brought him here, you should be cleaning your own fucking trash, not me!"

For a second, Chubby was taken aback, but he held his steely stare, his lips pressed tightly together. Trevor could see a thousand comebacks behind those eyes, but pretty boy decided to keep his mouth shut. Trevor broke away and grabbed the upper part of the old man's body again. "Don't just stand there. Help me out."

They dragged the body together, and placed the old man besides the cargo, which made a loud squelching sound as it leaned to the crate. They groaned in disgust and closed the door. Trevor hopped on the pilot's seat, picked up a pair of headphones, and switched on the engines. Chubby wore another set of headphones and slacked on his seat, staring in front of him.

Up in the air, the stench of the body was getting to them. Trevor thought bodies take hours to decompose, but it was already happening quickly behind them. The flare in the man's face crackled lightly, and every time it sparked, Chubby winced. The cabin started to smoke, stinging Trevor's eyes and clogging his nose together with the body's rot. He covered his mouth and nose with the collar of his shirt.

They left land and flew over the sea. Chubby wiped the windshield with his hand and looked down. "There, you see that?"

Trevor rubbed the window with his jacket and saw a large cargo ship. In the middle of the darkness, a man on the deck was waving a flair light. "How and where are we going to drop it?"

"Anywhere near the ship." Chubby unbuckled his belt and went to the backseat. He opened the door and heavy gush of wind ravaged the cabin. For a moment, they lost altitude. The smoke and the stench was gone, but he couldn't breathe properly.

"Is that gonna float?" Trevor yelled over the wind, gripping his steering wheel.

Chubby didn't answer, but he kicked the package out of the plane and closed the door tightly. The wind was gone in an instant. They were both disheveled. Chubby looked at the body besides him for a while, contemplating whether or not they should throw it to the sea as well. He shook his head and went back to the cockpit. Chubby tried to catch his breath. "The job's done. We can go home now."

Trevor stirred the plane back inland. His reflection showed on the windshield. He still hadn't wiped the blood from his face. "What's in that package?" he inquired.

"Deludamol. Plenty of it."

"And what's that?"

"I don't know."

"How'd you get him on your tail?" Trevor pointed at the body with his head.

"I think he already said how and why. It's hard working alone, you know. But I didn't plan on killing him."

"You don't have to remind me about what I did, Chubby."

"It's Michael Townley."

Trevor turned his head to him. "Michael Townley?"

"Yeah." He shifted on his seat. "We should...we should work together sometimes. I mean, if you need a job..."

Trevor sat back and snorted. "I'll think about it." This man wanted to associate and be associated with him. Trevor was so used to people backing out of friendship the moment they knew him, and that always made him angry. This voluntary approach surprised him, even though many other people did the same before. It would always surprised him.

The awful stench's back and it was making his eyes water. "We need to get rid of the old man," Trevor said.

"Over there." Michael Townley, Chubby—or whatever he wanted to call himself—leaned to the windshield. "Behind those hills, there's a lake, and landing for the plane. Let's take a rest."

They spun around the hills for a while to land safely on the large plain besides the lake. They got out and took the body down together. Trevor held the man's shoulders, and Michael the feet. Together, they counted down while swinging the body at the edge of the water. They let go at the right moment, and the old man flew far enough, landing in the water with a splush.

For the first time, Trevor had one good look of the body. He always looked away, and now as it drifted away from them, the brightness of the flare inside its eye socket illuminated its head. He did this, and it was fucking horrible, even for him. He wanted to look away, but he couldn't. He wondered when the flare would go out.

They quietly went back to the Cessna. Crickets and cicadas chirped. The dead man stench was gone and they welcomed the fresh air. Trevor's lungs felt clean again.

Michael opened the plane door and the stink hit them harder than it was supposed to. He doubled over and threw up, and Trevor followed, covering his mouth and watching his breakfast go upward and out. They moved away from each other and waited until they were done. Trevor swayed, laughing at himself and laughing at pretty boy Townley who wasn't finished cleaning his stomach yet. "The name's Trevor Philips, partner!" He shouted, and stumbled towards him, offering a slimy hand to shake. "Nice to meet ya!"


End file.
